


Free

by emjam



Series: lgbtq+ gravity falls [9]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Denial, Family Feels, Filbrick Pines' Bad Parenting, Fluff, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderqueer Mabel Pines, Haircuts, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Transphobia, Jewelry, LGBTQ Themes, Mabel and Dipper are healing forces of light tbh, Makeup, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Stan Pines, Self-Discovery, Shame, Trans Dipper Pines, i am back on my bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24790414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emjam/pseuds/emjam
Summary: There weren’t many times when Stanley Pines felt comfortable.Those times were far outweighed by memories of a square peg in a round hole, of Stanley the bad criminal, Stanley the bad son, Stanley the bad brother. Even in these roles he never seemed to measure up. Too reckless to avoid the law’s reach, too soft to be a son, too self-centered and stubborn to be any sort of brother.(Stanley Pines is not a man. It takes a while for them to figure that out.)
Relationships: Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Mabel Pines & Stan Pines
Series: lgbtq+ gravity falls [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/582943
Comments: 19
Kudos: 163





	Free

**Author's Note:**

> this work alludes to other parts of the series, but not in a way that you would be confused if you started with this.

There weren’t many times when Stanley Pines felt comfortable.

That didn’t mean it never happened. There were times when he was just Stanley, sixteen years old, laughing easily along with his brother at a stupid joke that only they understood. Just Stanley, fourteen years old, pushing a full brush back and forth across some salvaged wooden planks, painting it in preparation for installation on the Stan O’ War. Just Stanley, five years old, curled up in his mother’s arms as the TV blurred in black-and-white images at the end of a long day of work and play.

Those times were far outweighed by memories of a square peg in a round hole, of Stanley the bad criminal, Stanley the bad son, Stanley the bad brother. Even in these roles he never seemed to measure up. Too reckless to avoid the law’s reach, too soft to be a son, too self-centered and stubborn to be any sort of brother.

“Stop throwing a fit,” his dad gruffly ordered many times. It wasn’t a new conversation to them. “It’s just a haircut. You should want to look presentable.”

“I already look presentable,” a ten-year-old Stanley had sometimes retorted, if he had been brave enough that day, hair flopping against his forehead and curling against his neck. He liked it the way it was.

“I don’t spend hard-earned money at the barber’s for you to be ungrateful.”

That would usually shut Stan up. Eventually he stopped fighting it and would just go to the barber's. Eventually he started paying for the same haircuts himself, or getting a clean cut from a friend that knew their way around some clippers. Eventually it was second nature to keep his hair tight at the sides and short at the top.

The bad son couldn’t keep his focus in school, not like Ford could, so he got along by copying the good son. The bad son went soft at cheesy movies and cried too easily where the good son didn’t. The bad son felt queasy at prom, even though the nice lady down at the dry cleaner’s had tailored his tux perfectly and he had a date and everything was technically going just fine. There was no reason for his bowtie to be choking him.

“It’s hard to keep track of all this jewelry,” his mom said one evening, golden rings flashing on her hands under the yellowed light of the small master bedroom. Her jewelry chest had been open, items strewn about - most were cheap, or donations to the pawn shop, or had belonged to her own mother. The collection of necklaces, rings, and earrings made it hard for her to find what she was actually looking for when she would dig around in that chest. “I think I oughta give some of it to your dad to sell.”

“I could bring some of it down to the shop right now,” a fifteen-year-old Stanley replied by the doorway, where he was waiting for his mom to be done so they could all go to dinner. He walked up lightly beside his mother, letting his eyes comb over chains and brooches and earring posts. “Hey, some of these rings are pretty nice.” He plucked a particularly intricate one out from the messy pile. “Can I have one?” His words could always be a joke.

“Don’t bother, they’re all women’s. None of them would fit your fingers anyways.”

The next day, half of her jewelry collection was on display to be sold at the pawn shop. For a month while he was on shift, Stanley stared at the thick and thin golden chains draped over velvet, at the various metal bands poking up out of the foam ring tray. Eventually the display case dwindled down to nothing. Eventually the collection was gone.

It was a somehow wistful memory that occasionally came to mind years later whenever he saw men with jewelry, or women who wore the same chunky style in the same warm-tone metals as his mother. But another memory came back to Stan much more frequently.

“Are you kidding me? Why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future?!” Ford shouted.

That, and his father’s cruel hand balled into his shirt, and the cold sidewalk beneath him as he caught a pre-packed duffle bag: those were the things that Stanley would come to remember most. In the end the bad son couldn’t measure up, and became no one’s son before the end of senior year.

Unfortunately, after he left home he discovered that he was good at scams. He was good at a convincing smile, at coaxing twists to his sales pitches. It didn’t make for long-lasting friendships, but it did make for quick cash before he was inevitably run out of town. Quick cash was all he needed. And when his luck ran out with scams, he turned to dealing. He turned to a lot of things. He needed to be a money-making man no matter what it would take. And if on his downtime he slipped into gay bars to watch the drag queens perform, no one ever knew him for long anyways.

When Stanley was financially able (and it took him a missing brother to get there), he automatically chopped off his mullet. The mirror told him his haircut had ended up very short, very professional. He wanted to look presentable, after all.

He had hopped from role to role and landed himself in the skin of his brother, and it itched all over. It was less like a square peg in a round hole and more like a saltwater fish in a freshwater lake. He would have to respond to the grant board. He would have to plan his own funeral. He would have to pretend to be smart. And no matter what, he couldn’t afford to die.

“This is very unusual, Dr. Pines,” the man from the grant board commented on the other end of the line.

“Yes, I understand that. Unfortunately I’ve had some changes in my life and I’m, uh, unable to research any further,” the bad brother replied as he twisted the coiled phone cord around one finger. It had been three days since Ford disappeared.

“It says here that you’ve spent half of your current grant, but missed your last report date. I will need a writeup on the circumstances to possibly consider excusing this.”

Was there an unfinished report in Ford’s house somewhere? How would Stan ever find it? Mountains of papers covered nearly every surface. He wouldn't even know where to look.

“I - w-well you have to understand, sir, my, uh - my brother recently passed away.”

“I see. Were you close?”

Stanley swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I would say so. We were twins.”

Soft static. “I would recommend taking a break, sorting out your priorities during this time.” The man turned slightly sympathetic. “Take care of yourself, Stanford Pines.”

After the man hung up, Stanley let himself cry, his tears muffled and quiet in the suffocating air of Ford’s dirty kitchen, biting his lip so that he wouldn’t make a sound.

Fabricated papers here, a funeral there, and then it followed: be Stanford until he didn’t have to be Stanford anymore. That open deadline stretched out into three decades. The discomfort of his deception was constant even if quieted by little joys like the bob of a fish lure or the security of a profitable day at the Shack. But it didn’t matter much, because Stanley was used to playing someone else’s role.

* * *

Decades passed, and then he got the kids for the summer, and then the kids came out to him. Not much really changed - he was still playing the roles - except that his world tilted slightly on its axis.

So Dipper was actually a boy, and Mabel was actually neither. An inexplicable kinship immediately made Stanley fiercely supportive of them both. It might have been empathy instead of sympathy, but he wouldn't let himself wonder. He just vowed to protect these kids. Money was something he held close to him, but if either kid needed anything at all, money would no longer be an object.

It was odd how much he saw himself in them, but then again, not odd at all. They were thick as thieves and always stuck together. No mystery who that reminded Stan of.

"Grunkle Stan, I have a question," Dipper asked. He sounded hesitant, but still put himself out there. The fact that Dipper could come to Stan even when he was nervous made the chill in Stan's bones ache a little less.

"Shoot," the grunkle said. That was one role that he hopefully filled well - possibly the easiest role he’d ever been challenged to embody. He pretended to keep reading his _Gold Chains_ issue, but listened sharply.

"Um, can you take me into town to get a haircut? I’d walk there, but it’s kinda far and I don’t have the money."

Stan snapped his magazine shut. "Sure, kid. Even if you did have the money, I wouldn't make you pay for something like that. And I'll come with, I need a haircut anyways." It took him a moment to climb out of his chair - old age was getting to him. Wherever Ford was, it was probably getting to him too.

"You made us pay for our own employee t-shirts once," Dipper muttered to himself.

"Haircuts are different," The bad brother decided.

"Okay."

They made it to the barber's. Stan walked up to the counter, putting on an air of confidence - easy, considering that this barber’s been cutting his hair for a few decades now. "What do ya want, Dipper?"

"What? Oh." Dipper looked around at the airbrushed posters of conventionally attractive men and women. "Uh. Just a trim, I guess."

"You can get it as short as you want, you know. I won’t even stop you from shaving your head bare.”

"I'm not gonna do that. But… thanks, Grunkle Stan. Maybe I'll get it a bit shorter." He flushed, as if he had been told not to cut his hair too short before. Stanley ushered him on and told the man at the counter to give Stan his usual - short sides and a slightly longer top. A decades-old haircut served his purposes well.

When both Pines emerged with fresh cuts, Dipper marveled at his own short curls, even taking off his pine tree hat (a rare event) to ruffle it with a hand. His eyes sparkled in joyful self-recognition at his reflection in the mirror. "Thanks, Grunkle Stan!" He gave Stan a quick, embarrassed side-hug and ran off to the car.

Even though Stan shouldn't, he'd always hated his hairstyle on himself. The bad son ran his hand across the crisp short hair at the back of his head as he made his way to the driver's side. Dipper bounced excitedly into the passenger seat, and an odd mix of warmth and dread pooled in Stan's gut.

Dipper looked more comfortable with himself in that moment than Stan had ever felt. And Stan didn't know what to do with that information. It stuck in him, rattling somewhere between his ribs and keeping him up at night with an anxious heartbeat.

Just another thing to steal his sleep.

“Are you ready for a _makeover,_ Grunkle Stan?!” Mabel had shouted one morning, much louder than necessary at eight AM on a Saturday.

“I don’t remember agreeing to a makeover,” the grunkle grunted from his chair. It had been another long night in the basement. Stan felt every prickly hair on his face and he blinked tiredly against the weight of his eyebags.

“Too bad, I already brought all my stuff down.” And true to aer word, a large, bedazzled makeup kit sat beside aer.

“Huh. Looks like you did.” In the blink of an eye, Mabel was already undoing the kit’s clasps and popping it open. Apparently this was going to happen no matter what. Okay. Ae brought out some makeup brushes and eyeshadow palettes, the sight of which made something inside Stan flutter and twist. He wanted to - he wanted to throw up and hide.

“Oh, come on, Grunkle Stan, don’t make that face!” Mabel chirped. “Which palette do you want?”

Oh. Stan thought this was something that was going to happen to him, not something in which he was an active participant. Mabel was holding out two eyeshadow palettes, one boasting light glittery creams and pinks, and the other full of more subtle desaturated tones. He pointed to the latter.

“You’re right, I think that these colors would look really nice on you!” Ae popped the palette open and pulled out a makeup brush. “I usually just use my fingers, but I don’t want to do that to someone else’s face.”

Stan just muttered some sort of affirmative noise, took off his glasses, and let aer build up color, swiping the brush across his eyelids. He couldn’t tell much about what his nibling was doing, but ae seemed to gravitate towards some dark blues. The entire process was actually sort of calming. It was only vaguely terrifying when ae pulled out the mascara and Stan thought ae was going to poke his eye out. Even then, nothing bad happened, and Stan came out the other side without any sort of optic injury.

“Okay, done!” Mabel cheered. Ae pulled out aer compact mirror and pressed it into Stan’s hands. “Take a look, I think it’s some of my best work yet!”

He clicked the mirror open and slipped his glasses back on so that he could see. And what he saw was… pretty. Mabel’s handiwork was smooth and color-conscious, taking care to darken the edges and the crease with a deep blue that blended out to a whiter tone as it neared the corners of his eyes. He expected a colorful outrage of glitter, but that wasn’t what Mabel did. Apparently aer personal outrageousness was wholly intentional, and ae actually considered the sort of thing he would rather have on his face. His darkened eyelashes stood out, which surprised him; he had never worn mascara before. It was… nice.

But as he examined his face in the mirror, his stomach churned at his beard shadow, at his wrinkles. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing. He wasn’t supposed to be feeling okay about this - wasn’t supposed to be liking it. What the hell was wrong with him? He would never say something like that to Dipper or Mabel for wearing makeup, but in the moment he felt too sick of himself to be similarly kind. “It’s…”

Mabel gave him a wide grin. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful, sweetie,” Stan eventually rasped. The compact mirror fell to the carpet out of trembling hands. “I-I gotta go.” Before he knew it, he was standing, he was throwing out a lame excuse, he was escaping into the bathroom.

“Grunkle Stan?” Mabel's voice came muffled through the bathroom door, but Stan had locked it.

Stan winced at his reflection and looked away. He turned the faucet on hot, ran his fingers under the water, and began scrubbing furiously at his eyelids. The hot water burned, the friction hurt, but Stan didn’t own any makeup remover - why would he? So he rubbed and scraped until there were just faint mascara traces against his lower lids that he couldn’t seem to remove. Job mostly done, the sight in the mirror was of a sad and disheveled son. But that was okay. Get back into character, Stan.

"Hey!" Came Mabel’s voice again. “I’m about to break down this door with the baseball bat you keep under your chair!”

Oh hell no, there’s been enough property damage so far this summer. Stan unlocked the door with a sigh and pulled it open. There was Mabel, aer face tense with worry. It did not loosen at the sight of him. Ae fiddled with aer sweater sleeves. “What happened? Did you not like it?”

“No, Mabel, it was…" Stan struggled. "Well-done?" It seriously was, that wasn't supposed to sound like a question.

“Then why did you immediately take it off?”

Stan waved a hand. He didn’t have a real answer for aer. ‘I panicked’ wasn’t good enough. He could only shrug. “I’m… I’m sorry, sweetie. I appreciated it, but...”

Oh, great, if he made aer cry he would kick himself for weeks. But ae didn't. Something was tumbling around in aer mind. Ae just responded, “Grunkle Stan… do you want some makeup wipes for the rest of that mascara?”

He sniffed and covered it up with some kind of murmur about allergies. “Sure, kid.”

Turns out that makeup wipes were much better than boiling bathroom water at removing makeup. Go figure. “Hey, this stuff is effective,” Stan marvelled, despite himself.

Beside him, Mabel was packing up aer makeup kit. Ae bit aer lip in thought. Suddenly ae blurted out, “It’s okay to like makeup, Grunkle Stan.”

Stan froze. He must have misheard aer. “My hearing’s starting to go, kid. What was that?”

“That’s why you left so quickly to go wash it off, right? You felt bad about it. But it’s okay to do stuff you like even if people think it’s for another gender.”

Anxiety prickled at Stan’s skin. What was he supposed to say? If he acted like ae was wrong, that would crush aer. _Ae wasn’t wrong,_ and Stan would never make aer believe that ae had to prove aerself by giving up earrings and glitter. But universally agreeing would topple a carefully piled pillar in Stan, so he didn't poke that beast. “Eh, your generation’s the one that gets to experiment with all that stuff,” he dismissed. “Us old folks are too set in our ways.”

“That’s not true!”

Aer passion shocked him into silence.

Mabel wiped at aer eyes. “It’s _not_. It’s never too late to be happy.”

“Hey, whoa, who said I wasn’t happy?”

Ae just gave Stan a stern look. This young kid saw right through him. That was _terrifying_. Ae grabbed his arm and held him tight. “I want you to be happy.”

He had no words to match that, nothing to respond, no agreement or acquiescence. Who else in his life would ever express such a thing to him, even if they believed it - his family was not one for sentiment, except maybe his estranged mother. There was no universe in which he told Mabel that ae was right in every way. He just reached a hand up and pushed a chunk of aer bangs out of aer eyes. “I’m sorry.” It was all he could think to say, because somehow he had disappointed aer. Tears finally escaped him in secret when Mabel’s response was to reach around and pull him into a strong embrace.

* * *

Thrifting wasn’t usually Stan’s thing - why buy what he could steal for free? However, the kids had gathered up the courage to ask him for a shopping trip. Nothing huge, they assured, but some clothing that they would prefer over the items that they packed. It applied more to Dipper than to Mabel, but they both had things in their wardrobe they wanted to change, namely Dipper’s entire clothing selection and Mabel’s meager collection of gender-neutral bottoms.

As they entered the thrift store and the strong scent of cleaner bombarded them, Mabel ran to the boy’s aisle, yelling something passionate about shorts.

“I guess we’re starting there,” Dipper shrugged. He followed his sibling, and so Stan followed them both. The children meticulously checked the price tags on everything that caught their eye, which would be in line with Stan’s typical habits, but he assured them that if something fit and filled a hole in their wardrobe, they should toss it in the cart regardless. This thrift store was the cheaper of the two in town, and Stan had enough money stuffed in random corners of the house to spend a good amount on these kids for one day.

In-between the men’s t-shirt section and an oddly specific and large display of glass angel figurines, Mabel tossed a striped t-shirt in the cart and said, “Grunkle Stan, are there any holes in _your_ wardrobe?”

“Pants, probably,” Dipper said as he combed through the t-shirt rack. In response, Stan knocked his hat off with a hand. Dipper grumbled something under his breath as he retrieved it.

“Kid, I’ve been wearing the same clothes for the past twenty or so years. I think I’m good.”

“Well, _I_ think it sounds like you’re due for some upgrades,” Mabel countered.

“What kinda upgrades?”

“Pants,” Dipper coughed again into his closed fist, and then innocently crossed his arms. “Or any kind of leg-and-butt covering for around the house, I’m not picky.”

“Yeah, _any kind!_ ” Mabel emphasized strangely.

Stan squinted. “Why’re you two acting like you’re in cahoots?”

They merely steered him to the men’s pants, where he begrudgingly picked up one (1) pair of sweatpants that looked vaguely comfortable. Yeah, he went pantless a lot, sue him. It was the middle of summer and he’d rather not die of heatstroke in his own home.

He only started doubting the kids' intentions when they started tugging him towards the women’s skirt rack.

“Okay, stop, stop, stop.” Stan put his foot down and crossed his arms. “What the heck is going on here?”

“Honestly, I just want the innocence of my youth to be protected whenever I walk into the living room,” Dipper said. “I’m trying to cover all the bases here.”

“What innocence,” Stan deadpanned. “Is this about the…” His voice lowered to a hiss, and he gestured aggressively to the women’s section directly in front of them. “The makeup?”

At least Mabel had the presence of mind to look guilty when ae nodded. For a second, Stan was ready to tear his hair out. But, honestly, _of course_ ae would tell Dipper about that. Stan would’ve done the same in aer position, because for some unfathomable reason these kids _cared_ about him.

But he still couldn’t do this. “No. No way.” Stan grabbed the cart and turned it around, only to be met with two puppy-eyed niblings stopping the cart with their arms and begging him to _at least give it a chance, Grunkle Stan, you don’t even have to buy anything!_

That was how he found himself actually perusing the skirt section, swallowing against the self-disgust worming its way up his throat. He could humor the kids for just a little bit. He could’ve admonished Mabel, told aer that any perceived interest in makeup ( _perceived_ , because who said that he actually liked it? Not him) wouldn’t mean anything about his clothing. But he didn’t.

“What about this one?”

He turned and saw Mabel holding out the pinkest and frilliest thing he had ever seen.

“Mabel. I am a fat old man.”

“Nooo! Don’t speak like that!” The monstrosity went back onto the rack anyways with a click.

“It’s literally a fact.”

“One of those things doesn’t have to be a fact if it doesn’t feel like one,” Mabel singsonged.

It took Stan a moment to rifle through what he had said to warrant that response. Wait a minute. “I -”

“Grunkle Stan, this might be nice. I think it's your size,” Dipper interrupted, and Stan was honestly impressed with the nonchalance Dipper managed to exhibit about this entire thing. Of course, these kids were both more self-aware and - what the fuck was the phrase from the only online educational video Stan could bring himself to watch? - ‘gender-expansive’ than most adults Stan knew. The young boy pulled out a long maroon skirt that must’ve been made for tall people - it would stop just above Stan’s shoes at that length. It was classy and understated. If Dipper thought it would fit Stan, it probably would. The kid had practically tattooed a clothing size conversion chart on the back of his eyelids in preparation for this shopping trip, fully prepared to convert both his own and his sibling's usual sizes to men's.

An old feeling returned to Stan, the same one that came from watching the jewelry behind the glass case or standing in the shadows as drag queens sang their hearts out. Of looking but not touching. Seeing but not being.

Stan soon realized that he had been silent for too long.

“Oh my gosh, Grunkle Stan, do you _like it?!_ ” Mabel jumped up and down. Stan cringed, imagining the world turning its head to see him exposed and obvious like one tile out of place on an otherwise perfect floor. His first instinct was to snap at aer to keep aer voice down, but it wasn’t aer fault that he was a dumb, twisted-up pretzel of shame. So he didn’t do that.

“Uh, I was just interested in the fabric. Y’know, all that taxidermy and sh - stuff I do.” Great cover, Stan, _really_ convincing. “Put it back.”

“But -” Dipper started.

“Please.”

Mutely, Dipper did as he was told.

Once everything was tried on and brought to the register, he had the kids pile it up on the counter and didn’t even glance at the price. It didn’t matter - if whatever he bought gave both of the kids that look of peaceful self-comfort that Dipper had grown into when he got his haircut, every dollar would be worth it. The grunkle herded them to the car, full bags in hand, and they headed home.

When Stan dragged himself up so many stairs to collapse in his room that night after a harrowing round of calculations and tests in the basement, he almost threw himself on top of some random junk on his bed. With a grumble, he went to swipe it off - but he hadn’t put it there.

It was the skirt from the thrift store. The one he explicitly did not buy. The damn kids must’ve snuck it into the purchase without him realizing. And not only that, but also a small eyeshadow palette of various reds, browns, and blues. A single eyeshadow brush, a mini bottle of mascara, and a 30-pack of makeup wipes accompanied it.

Stan stared. There were two star-shaped sticky notes stark against the dull red of the skirt. He peeled one off and read the note in glitter pen.

_Grunkle Stan,_

_I know you told us to put this back, but I know in your heart that you and this skirt were made to be together! I saw it in your eyes! You said that your old-person generation doesn’t “get” to do this stuff, but it’s never too late to try something new. I don’t want you to write something off that might make you smile. And if it doesn’t work out, that’s okay! Experiments are like that sometimes! Just do what feels right. We love you!!! - Mabes :o)_

The second sticky note was scrawled all over in blue ballpoint.

_Grunkle Stan,_

_Me and Mabel know how it feels to hold yourself back. You’ve given us the chance to be ourselves this summer. You’re the first we told, and you took it in stride. We want to encourage the same stuff for you. We’re the last people who would judge. I bet Soos would completely accept anything you tell him, too. He loves you, dude! Mabel was right: we want you to be happy. Don’t stop yourself from doing that. Love, Dipper_

Stanley was too tired to cry either happy tears or sad tears. He was too sleepy to indulge in self-disgust and lament for his roles. He was too exhausted to the bone to do anything with the gifts strewn out on his bed. All he could do was carefully relocate them to his closet and curl up on the mattress. There were only a few hours left till his alarm would go off for the first tour of the day, but he still sunk into a peaceful, tense-free sleep.

* * *

There were a couple reasons Stan had barely researched anything about the kids’ whole gender business after they came out to him. For one, there wasn’t a computer in the house, and Stan was a busy person, so he only managed to go to the library to use theirs once. But the other reason was a lot less practical. He was supposed to be a money-making man; those things were never up for debate. He had watched one video about the topic and began to feel ill. The ideas in the video rendered his carefully constructed roles obsolete, striking down years of shaping and contorting into the right boxes that felt wrong. And if the kids could do this, flourish and unrestrain themselves, then what was stopping _him_ from -

Anyways. That was a good enough reason to never step within the library again after the bile that had risen into his mouth. But today, he was going back there and getting some answers. Sure, he could ask the children, but he would never have done that. He had to do this himself. He was good at research, and damn stubborn, and he was going to unravel this.

Although, the youthful anecdotes he found in abundance were lacking history, lacking length. They were strong and powerful, but they were the words of confident youth that he could never completely relate to. He had to seek out older stories, had to dig deep to find _To Survive on This Shore_ , to find a list of works by someone named Kate Bornstein, to find an internet page of ‘elders’ that defied their given boxes.

It could’ve always just been about clothes, for him. But Stan only entertained the idea for a second before dismissing it. That had never been the case, and he knew that.

There weren’t many times when Stanley Pines felt comfortable. But perhaps he was starting to understand why.

* * *

Was Stanley really going to do this?

Getting dressed was usually a deliberately emotionless affair. He had a uniform and stuck to it. Mr. Mystery on weekdays, tanks and shorts (and now the occasional pair of sweatpants) on weekends. That way everything was smooth, cyclical. He didn’t have to ruminate on it, didn’t have to like or dislike what he saw. Today was a day in. The kids were planning on a Tiger Fist marathon stretching from the morning to well into the afternoon, and Stan wanted to make them breakfast for it before they woke up, but he found himself standing stupidly in front of his closet instead.

How come he managed to feel bad for being nervous about this and, _at the same time_ , feel bad for wanting to do this in the first place? That was just not fair. “Oh, come on,” he growled. “Just do it, you pussy.” Self-degradation somehow worked, since the hanger finally found its way into his hand. His throat tightened. He pulled the maroon skirt over his legs and let it sit at his waist on top of his plain white t-shirt. It was straight in form and stopped right atop his feet. The cool material swished against his legs in a motion much sweeter than his old slacks. After a second thought, he pulled his gold chain out from under his shirt. It laid reassuringly against his sternum; something familiar. Surprisingly - though maybe not a surprise at all - he wished that it were one of his mother’s necklaces instead. But he still liked it.

The mirror told him he looked more than just presentable: he looked _nice_. Even with the haircut he usually hated, he looked like _himself_. Stan had thought that he was seeing himself every time he saw his father’s jawline and fez in the mirror, every time he saw the tailored suit that would maybe make his parents proud of him. But this Sunday morning, he was proven wrong in the most uplifting and novel way possible.

Maybe this was what Dipper felt when he cut his hair. This was what Mabel wanted Stan to find.

Shit, it’s already nine. He’s gotta get those pancakes together.

When the kids clattered down the stairs around half-past nine, Stan was just finishing up a good pile of Stancakes. “About time,” he called out to them, flipping the last pancake and resolutely looking at anything other than the twins. It was hard to ignore the way his heart seized in learned terror, but he was good at selective attention at this point. “Doesn’t that marathon start sometime in the next hour or so?” He knew exactly when it started so that he could wake the kids up if need be, but they didn’t need to know that.

“Yeah, it’s -” Mabel started, but just as soon stopped. “Ahhh! Grunkle Stan!”

He glanced over at aer - ae was looking at him and waving aer hands in the air, but happily? The vice around his heart began to loosen. “What, do I got somethin’ on my face?” He grumbled, heat rising to his cheeks.

Mabel made an indecipherable noise, though that seemed to be half of aer vocabulary, so it wasn’t necessarily worrying.

So this was okay. The world didn't explode, no one told him to clean up his act, and this was okay.

Dipper slid into a seat as Stan brought over some plates laden with pancakes. He just softly smiled. “You look nice, Grunkle Stan.”

“Thanks, kid.” Stan grinned back, within an element he didn’t even know was his until now. He slid the boy a plate. “So do you.” He ruffled Dipper’s hair with one hand, making him laugh. “Geez, Mabel, take a seat, will ya?”

“Oh! Right!” Mabel sat down beside aer brother, practically vibrating. “So does this mean more makeovers?”

“I-”

“Ooh! How about a fashion show! With lights and an emcee and -”

Stan pulled a face as he settled into a chair. “I dunno about that.”

“Maybe give him room to breathe, Mabel,” Dipper said lightheartedly.

Ae quieted. “Sorry. I _do_ have a serious question though.”

Stan forked his own bite of pancake. “Yeah?”

“What’re you’re pronouns?”

Uh. Stan wracked his brain for a single comprehensive thought, but could find none. “Just do whatever,” he spluttered, and stuffed a forkful of food into his mouth. Did he really have the option to change those?

“Okay!” Mabel agreed happily.

“We’re proud of you,” Dipper casually commented, and then he started eating his own breakfast, as if what he said didn’t immediately drown Stan’s heart in warmth. When was the last time anyone was proud of him?

No crying at the kitchen table, Stan.

The scrapes of cutlery against plates were uncomfortably loud. “I’m proud of you kiddos too.” He had to tell them that. They had to know.

Mabel blinked. “But we didn’t do anything?”

“Yeah, you did. You’ve grown a lot this summer. I gotta commend that.” At least before his brother came back and the kids stopped believing a single thing that would leave Stan’s mouth. In the moment, though, Mabel and Dipper warmly smiled back at him, and that was enough for now.

Later in the day, in the midst of sibling bickering, Stan overheard Mabel argue to Dipper, “Grunkle Stan couldn’t’ve lost the remote, they haven’t even been in here since this morning!” Dipper made a strong retort, but Stan didn’t hear it. They were too busy smiling to themself like a fool.

* * *

“You look like Dad.”

Stanley’s veins went ice-cold. Their reflection began to twist back into something they hated, and they forced themself to look away. “Ugh.” Suddenly their mouth was dry. “Don’t say that.” There was no joke in their words.

“I… but it’s true,” Ford responded.

Stan ran a hand through their shaggy hair. They had been avoiding the barber as of late. “I don’t wanna be compared to him.” In any way, shape, or form. Stan may have made some (okay, very many) mistakes, but they liked to think that they were better than their dad ever was. Even if Filbrick found out that Stanley never died a fiery and painful death in a car crash, that Stanley was still alive and running a successful business, he wouldn’t take his son back. He wouldn’t have a son to take back. Stan knew that for a fact.

Ford’s face was pinched, unsure. “He was really that bad, huh.”

It would make sense for Ford to remember home a bit more fondly. Dad at least pretended to like Ford.

“Yeah, he was. You were his favorite son.”

“Stanley, that’s not true.”

“Yes, it definitely is. I wasn’t even a son,” they mumbled.

“Why would you say that?”

Stan shrugged. “I wasn’t the son he wanted, and I’m not his son or kid or _anything_ anyways.”

“You’re serious about this,” Ford solemnly stated. Not a condemnation, just an understanding. Stan knew that, but they couldn’t help but poke the fire.

“No, Ford,” Stan deadpanned. “It’s all just some elaborate prank to convince you that I’m not a man.”

“I get it, I get it, you don’t have to be so abrasive.”

“Well, forgive me for not sharpening my social skills while I spent the last three decades getting you outta that damn portal.”

And then they devolved into inevitable vitriolic arguments, and really, why did Stan convince themself that this was ever going to go any other way?

* * *

Stan thanked whatever thankless deity existed that Ford’s unruly hair had become a tameless beast during his time on the other side of the portal. If the two of them hadn’t at least looked like they sported similar lengths at first glance, this swap might be hard to pull off.

“Oh, shit,” Stan muttered. “Would Bill be tipped off by these?” They pulled out their small gold hoops, holding them in one dirtied hand alongside their gold chain and rings. The kind woman down at the jewelry shop had happily pierced Stan’s ears at half-price about a month ago, chattering about how much her kids loved the Mystery Shack. It had been painfully bittersweet for reasons the woman didn’t even know.

“Hand them to me.”

Stan passed them over and watched wordlessly as their brother easily slipped the hoops into his ears.

“What?” Ford shrugged. “I got my ears pierced in Dimension 52.”

“Huh.” They passed him the rings and chain too. Both of them finished swapping clothes in a terse silence, averting their eyes at each other’s battered and scarred bodies.

“Listen, Stanley.” He swallowed. “For what it’s worth, I’m… sorry.”

Stan pulled down the six-fingered gloves to keep them secure. Bill would be back any second now. They put their hand on their brother’s shoulder. “I’m sorry too.”

“I’ll find a way to reverse the effects-”

They shook their head. “When the time comes, just shoot me. Don’t think about the after.” And who knows? Maybe it’ll be better for them to be erased from this world. Maybe Stanley can stop fighting and finally rest.

* * *

Memory was fickle.

It was a jumble to begin with, but Stanley’s memories were also often double-sided, their brain getting tangled up in role versus self. Sometimes Stanley thought that their name was Stanford. Sometimes they got confused when someone didn’t admonish them for their messy hair, nearing a length that would let them tie it in a small ponytail at the base of their neck. Sometimes they felt like they should be Mr. Mystery, standing up in front of a crowd and throwing out lines to reel in gullible tourists, but they were just sitting in front of the TV with their family.

“That’s you!” The child named Mabel had cradled a scrapbook and pointed excitedly at an old, old picture of a young teenager with his arm around someone that Stanley understood to be Stanford. Both boys’ hair was cut classically short, though Stanley’s was slicked up.

“That’s me?” Stanley squinted. That was Stanley, but not. A Stanley hidden from sight. They turned the photo this way and that, but couldn’t mend the blatant disconnect. There was something in the kid’s eyes, though, a sadness that Stanley recognized - not when they looked in the mirror, but when they tried to look into the past. “Damn, I was a crater-face, huh.” Their family laughed, and that at least made Stanley smile.

That teenager was both unrecognizable and painfully familiar. But Stanley wasn’t him anymore.

* * *

“Ready to go?”

The last box wasn’t a particularly heavy one. Stan shoved it into the backseat of El Diablo. “Yep,” they told Ford. “That’s the last of it.” Their hair curled against their neck, finally growing out after decades of chopping it short. Them and Ford were all set to drive to the coast, where the shiny new Stan O’ War II would be waiting for them. A boat all their own, and plenty of ocean to explore. Stan plopped into the driver’s seat with a sigh as Ford joined them in the passenger’s seat. “Treasure and babes, huh, Ford?”

“Stanley, you know I don’t like ‘babes’,” Ford deadpanned.

“Oh no,” Stan dramatized. “How the hell will we become world-renowned pirates without the babes?” The joke was only held for about a second before both of them burst out laughing. Stan wheezed and took a big breath. “Alright, alright - you got everything? Didn’t leave anything in the Shack?”

“Like I told you the first ten times - we’ve got everything we need!” He smiled. “Don’t tell me; you’re actually putting off leaving?”

“What? No! I always hated this dump,” they insisted, fiddling with one of the gold studs in their ears. “Whole town is a pile of garbage.” At Ford’s friendly punch to their shoulder, they dropped the act with a laugh. “I hear ya loud and clear, Sixer. Just procrastinating.” They put the car in drive and pulled out of the driveway. This was where the twins’ adventure would officially begin: with a boringly long car ride full of radio station marathons and road games. And Stanley wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Stanley,” Ford had started some time later, when Stan was flicking through the radio stations and trying to keep their brain from turning to mush.

“What’s up?”

“You look a lot happier.”

Stan hesitantly smiled, keeping their eyes on the road. “Yeah?” Off to their right, they saw Ford nod out of the corner of their eye.

“On some level I always got the impression that you were playing things up when we were kids, trying to be different than what you were. As if your clothing and mannerisms were armor instead of expression. But it took me a while to realize what that even meant.” Ford sighed. “I’m sorry I was so cold to you when I came back.”

“You don’t gotta apologize again, Sixer. I forgive you.”

“But I _want_ to. You look nice, Stanley. And more than anything, you look _happy_.”

Stubborn tears began to well up despite Stan’s best efforts. “Come on, I can’t cry while I’m driving,” they half-joked.

“Then pull over,” Ford easily assured.

Decades ago, Stan would’ve just been told to suck it up. Told to be a man about it. The quiet acceptance and allowance for them to do what they needed was what did it. The car rumbled onto the side of the road. Stan punched the hazards on and put their baby in park.

“It’s _okay_ , Stanley,” their brother told them, and oh boy, that started the fucking waterworks.

Tears rolled down Stan’s cheeks, no matter how much Stan tried to wipe them out of existence. Not a good look for their mascara. They silently cried, only daring to make noise when they hit the point where sniffing was absolutely necessary in order to keep their face from turning into a snot-fest. “I’m sorry, I dunno what’s comin’ over me.” They managed to look over, and to their surprise, Ford’s eyes were wet too.

Awkwardly, they both leaned over the console and wrapped arms around each other, somehow knowing what they both needed. Warm arms tugged Stanley close to Ford’s chest even though the action made their positioning even less comfortable. The car was cramped, packed full of supplies for the new boat, and Stan’s shoulders were starting to hurt from unnaturally twisting to hug Ford. They were both snotty and claustrophobic and uncomfortable.

And Stanley had never felt more free.

**Author's Note:**

> whenever I try to write about queer Stanley it becomes SO LONG. happy pride! this was extremely self-indulgent and I hope someone out there enjoyed it <3
> 
> I couldn't find a single depiction of NB stan anywhere and had to write something for my fave character of all time.
> 
> up to now this series depicted Stan as cis, but I'm straying from keeping headcanons cohesive in the series so this is sort of an add-on "what-if" - Stan isn't explicitly NB in "An Ongoing Process", but "An Ongoing Process" is explicitly canon in this NB Stan fic.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Age is a Number and Gender an Illusion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24875440) by [3HobbitsInATrenchcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3HobbitsInATrenchcoat/pseuds/3HobbitsInATrenchcoat)




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